


Arguably More Realistic Than Pinocchio

by VaguelyDownwards



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Feels, Gen, unrepentant sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaguelyDownwards/pseuds/VaguelyDownwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Infinity, because sad Spine is best Spine.</p><p>It's not clear if the cure for heartache in humans is equally effective in robots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arguably More Realistic Than Pinocchio

There were some days when Michael Reed felt a bit like Alfred with triple the Batman, some days when he felt like a cross between a mechanic and a babysitter, and some days when he was simply lost in all the bizarre and amazing things the Walter family and their metal men had to offer. That night was one of the lattermost. He’d inherited his position, whatever one might call it, from his father, and his father before him, and even still, there were secrets that the Reeds had yet to uncover. He’d taken to exploring the seemingly endless halls of Walter Manor on nights like this, speculating about what might lie behind each door that he passed.  
  
He realized that he recognized where his restless wanderings had taken him— he was standing in front of the Spine’s room. If the Spine were human and had the associated biological needs, he’d call it a bedroom, but as the automaton never slept, it was simply the place he went when he wasn’t somewhere else. Michael paused and considered knocking.  
  
“You may as well come in,” said the voice on the other side of the door. Of course. The Spine didn’t just use his finely-tuned electronic hearing for playing catchy tunes. There were other voices in the background, slightly familiar ones that Michael couldn’t quite place. Hesitantly, he pushed open the door and peered inside.  
  
A large recliner blocked most of the view from the door, but the Spine was tall enough that his head— or at least his hat— was clearly identifiable. The sole source of light was the flicker of a television screen opposite the door.  
  
“You know,” said Michael, entering the room proper and closing the door behind him, “If you wanted to watch a movie by yourself, we could probably find the cables to jack you in directly.”  
  
“The formatting’s wrong. I could convert it, but this is how it’s meant to be experienced: on a screen of a certain size, from a certain distance, with speakers situated around the viewer.”  
  
Michael watched the screen for a bit. _Pretty Woman._ He’d long ago learned not to question the bots’ taste in movies, but he still had a hard time imagining the Spine as a Julia Roberts fan. He looked down at the Spine stretched out on the recliner and noticed another detail. “Can you even _taste_ ice cream?”  
  
The Spine didn’t look at him and simply took another bite from the half-empty pint. “It’s what people do, isn’t it?” he said flatly.  
  
“What is?”  
  
The Spine gestured at the TV with his spoon. “Watch a sappy romance and eat ice cream. The cure for heartache. It’s even _in_ some of the movies.”  
  
“I suppose it is for some people,” admitted Michael. He sat on the edge of the recliner’s armrest, leaning one arm over the back so he could watch the film. Not exactly his favorite, but there were definitely worse things to watch. “Generally that only applies to people who enjoy ice cream and unlikely love stories.”  
  
“I might enjoy ice cream.”  
  
“Might?”  
  
The Spine shrugged noncomittally. “I can’t taste it, but I can register its temperature. It cools my boiler,” he said with distaste. “I suppose you’d call it a relaxing effect.”  
  
“And _Pretty Woman_?” said Michael with a slight nod towards the screen. He started to smile, or at the very least, smirk, but he caught the Spine’s serious expression and thought better of it.  
  
“She tries so hard to be something she’s not. And neither of them are perfect, but they have their happy ending.” He took another bite of ice cream. In the dim light provided by the television, his eyes seemed to shine brightly. “Because she tried.”  
  
“Remind me to loan you _My Fair Lady_ sometime,” Michael muttered.  
  
“I was at the premiere.” A series of puffs of steam ghosted from the vents along his back. “You forget how long we’ve been around.”  
  
Michael nodded slowly. The conversation fell into a lull. A certain distance away on a screen of a certain size, Richard Gere climbed the fire escape, desperately clutching roses in his teeth. The Spine’s sigh was measuredly quiet, as if he thought Michael wouldn’t hear him from his perch on the armrest. They both maintained an ironclad silence as the happy couple kissed. The camera panned out. Music played on speakers situated around the viewers.  
  
The Spine extracted himself from the recliner with an eerie grace as the credits rolled, leaving Michael attached awkwardly to the side of the chair. “You’re welcome to watch another if you like. I’ll be in the Hall of Wires.” He smoothed the wrinkles from his vest and turned towards the door.  
  
“Everything was working fine last I checked, there’s really no need,” Michael insisted, trying to maintain his balance the suddenly-empty recliner.  
  
“There’s always something.” He left his hat on the chair. Even in the near darkness, his head gleamed segmented and silver. He opened the door, bathing the room in light from the hallway, and became nothing more than a man-shaped silhouette in the night.


End file.
